


The Pen Is Mightier

by hapakitsune



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The measure of Q's affection can be determined by the gifts he makes for people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pen Is Mightier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [War_Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Kitten/gifts).



> Happy birthday Liz! This is mostly gen post-film fic but edging towards getting-together fic at the end. Thanks to novembersmith for the title and siri for the look-over. Translation svyvia [here](http://mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=89358).

On Tuesday, Q gives M a pen that turns into a blowgun. 

"Don't take this the wrong way, Q," M says, turning it over in his fingers, "but why?"

"In the unlikely event that an intruder is able to sneak past Miss Moneypenny," Q says, "I thought it would be nice for you to have a weapon."

"I have a gun taped to the bottom of my desk," M says. 

"And it writes really nicely," Q offers. 

"I have plenty of pens," M says, pointing at his desk where he does, indeed, have a very impressive collection of very expensive pens.

"Well, you can take it to boring government meetings," Q says. "I have a nice, mild tranquilizer that –"

"No," M says, kindly, and he gently pushes Q out of his office. 

Eve is openly laughing at him when he emerges. "I know what you're doing," she says, voice going singsong. Sometimes, Q really wishes she had gone into the field. 

"What am I doing?" he asks. 

"I think you know the answer to that," Eve says, "and I doubt you want me to say it aloud _here_."

"I could hack the surveillance," Q points out. 

"That seems like a lot of unnecessary work," M says from behind the door, and Q jumps. He does not, _Eve_ , squeak.

Eve is laughing harder now, the traitor. Q straightens his jumper with great dignity and stalks out of the office. This, he reflects, is what he gets for ever venturing out of Q branch.

 

The whole mess starts, as most messes do, with Bond. 

Bond had taken to hanging around Q's lab when he wasn't being brooding and mysterious on the roof of MI6 (and frankly, Q thought the man was taking his mystique a little far) and he had idly picked up one of Q's pens and said, "I bet you couldn't think of fifty different ways to modify this pen."

So Q, of course, has to prove him wrong. 

By the end of the week, he had given out dozens of his differently modified and weaponized pens to people around MI6. 004 got the pen that was also a homing beacon; Tanner had received the one that both recorded and had a tiny speaker for playback; Eve had the pen that had ink that was also poison; his assistant got the one that could work as an epi-pen; and Bond, of course, received the exploding pen which he was, under no circumstances, to use anywhere near Q.

Q is particularly proud of the blowgun pen, though, which is why he had saved it for M. It's a bit suspect, his desire to please and impress M, but he thinks it's not entirely unreasonable behaviour from a newly-instated Quartermaster eager to get in good with the even newer boss. The fact that Eve has, apparently, figured him so quickly is really more a testament to her superior understanding of him rather than any failure of subtlety on Q's part. 

He hopes, anyway. 

It's funny; when Q had learned that the old M was possibly being pushed out of the service, he had been prepared to hate anyone who would take her place. He had quite liked her, as remote and cold as she could be at times, and had taken great comfort in her reasonable expectations of Q branch. She was frighteningly intelligent and bitingly funny and nothing had pleased him more than watching her cut down other people to size. 

She had left him the collection of gadgets she swore she had destroyed from her early days at MI6, and he spends a gleeful afternoon going through them all and examining the workmanship before eventually deciding that he is much better and that it really is no wonder she insisted that they hire him as the assistant to the old Quartermaster. It makes him miss her all the more, though. He traces his fingers over the places where M's hand had worn down the metal of her cigarette lighter camera and wonders if this is all that's left of her now – this box of scraps and Bond. 

Well, he is her legacy too, in a way, he supposes. 

He takes some of the more interesting gadgets from M's box into the office the next day and is tinkering with one of them when Bond wanders in, looking as absurdly well put-together as always. 

"007," Q says with a nod. 

"Q." Bond does his version of hovering, which means that he leans against the worktable and pretends like he isn't bored. He really is quite like the cat Q had owned when he was at uni, only marginally better groomed. 

"Don't you have people to shoot?" Q carefully pries out the canister of film from the cigarette lighter and eyes it. It, surprisingly, seems to have actually been used. "Or are you still on suspension?"

"Physical leave," Bond corrects, his face still perfectly impassive. Q hates spies. "Is that film?"

"Yes," Q says. "I'm going to take this down to the lab for developing. Don't touch anything," he adds. 

He makes his second-in-command keep an eye on Bond while he's away. He has to promise to buy her coffee for a month, but at least Bond probably won't blow up the building.

The lab technician squints at the film when he hands it over and says, "Christ, Q, how old is this?"

"Probably from the Cold War," he admits. "Might be worth looking at, though."

"All right," she says, turning in her seat. "But don't get annoyed if it comes out spotty and weird."

"I'm just curious," he says. "I don't know if it's important yet."

"As long as there aren't naked photos of you in here. Now, naked photos of Bond –" She twists around and smirks up at him. 

"I'm thinking of selling tickets for the surveillance video of his next mission," Q says. "Interested?"

"Send me an email," she says. "I'll call you when the photos are done."

Q thanks her and returns to his workshop, as he affectionately calls it, to find Bond examining an attaché case that, as far as Q can tell, once fired poison darts. "I think I would like one of these," Bond tells Q. 

"You have a dreadful tendency to break or lose the gifts from my division," Q says. "Tell me why I should give you anything."

Bond narrows his eyes very slightly. Q reminds himself that Bond probably won't kill him and raises his eyebrows in response. "Because sometimes I will need the advantage only you can give me."

"Well," Q says after a moment. "You really know what to say, don't you? Is that the famous Bond charm I hear so much about?"

"I could teach you, if I thought you could learn," Bond says and wow, he's even cattier than Eve had said. 

"If I promise to make you something, will you let me work?" Q asks. He moves past Bond. "Make a list. I'll see what I can do."

When he looks up, Bond is gone. "Huh," Q says, and promptly forgets about him as he goes back to work. 

 

"You have to take Bond back," Eve hisses when she arrives in the lab with a flimsy excuse to talk to Q privately. "He has started hanging around my office and have you _seen_ his eyes? I am only so strong."

"He does have lovely eyes," Q agrees. "Are you sure you didn't sleep with him?"

"Quite sure, thank you," Eve says primly. "I do have some dignity. And common sense."

"Yes, it's a shame that anyone he ever shows the slightest interest in dies," says Q. "Not that he would make much of a boyfriend."

"Not as such, no," agrees Eve. "Find something for him to do, will you?"

"Doesn't he have _friends_?" Q asks. He pauses. "Wait, what am I saying? Of course he doesn't."

"Do you have friends who don't work for us?" Eve asks dryly. "And your sister does not count," she adds when Q opens his mouth.

"I was going to say the bartender at the pub down the road from my flat," he says, "but on second thought, I'm not actually sure he likes me."

"Are you kidding? He has a crush on you a mile wide." Eve knocks her shoulder against Q's. "Just get Bond to leave me alone."

"Talk to Bill," Q suggests. "Get him to give Bond a new job. I'm busy."

"Making something for Himself?" Eve arches her eyebrows in that terrifying way of hers and Q shoves at her shoulder. 

"No," he says. "For Bond."

"Hm," she says, sounding unconvinced. 

"Good lord, Moneypenny," Q says loudly, "you'd better get back right away, that's very urgent," and he starts herding her towards the door. 

"All right, all right," Eve says. "No need to be rude."

"I'll talk to Bill," Q says in an undertone. "I'm sure he can think of something ridiculous for Bond to do."

"Ooh, yes," Bill says eagerly when Q finds him. He actually rubs his hands together, which even Q finds mildly terrifying. "I've been _waiting_ for this."

"What exactly do you have planned for him?" Q asks warily.

Bill grins and says, "Psychiatrists."

"Right, I'm going down to Q branch and locking the door," Q says, backing out of the room. "Call me if we need to evacuate."

 

Q has what the MI6 therapists describe as "a distressing tendency to get over-absorbed in his work," although they go back and forth on whether this is actually a bad thing. He, when requested to sleep by various other staff members, points that they seem perfectly content to let him work himself to exhaustion when it benefits them. That usually gets them to go away. 

Today – or rather, tonight – he is prodding away at what he hopes will be a sufficient present to placate Bond and hopefully keep him occupied for a few days. He is using an old mould of Bond's head to tweak the sunglasses to fit better when M walks in and says, "Staying late again, I see."

Q swears and nearly drops his screwdriver. "Sir," he says, turning and futilely attempting to hide the bust behind his back. "I didn't know you were still here."

M's arm is still in a sling, but he looks tireless and neat as always. "I never realized how much time this job would take up," he admits. "I looked up and it was half three."

"Is it half three?" Q asks vaguely, looking around, but he'd had all clocks removed after someone had protested that he had kept them there for too long. "Damn."

"Yes," agrees M. "Come along, Q. You need sleep."

"You're the one recovering from a gunshot wound. Sir." Q eyes M for any sign of discomfort. "How _is_ your arm?"

"Better than it was, thank you for asking." M gently pulls Q's hand forward, relieves him of his screwdriver, and starts pushing him towards the door. "Go _home_ , Q."

"Only if you do as well, sir," Q says. "You've been shot, you should be resting."

M gives Q a terrifically unimpressed look. "Are you trying to give me orders?"

"It's half three, I think we can let protocol slide a bit," Q says, because he's never quite known when to stop. 

M's mouth quivers. "It's closer to four by now," he says. "Come along, I'll call my car."

Q trails meekly after M, stopping only to grab his parka from the hook. He attempts to neaten his hair, but he's pretty much a lost cause at this point. He's in desperate need of a shower and sleep. It's always the way, though, that he seems to get caught at his worse by the people he most wants to think highly of him. 

"I don't suppose you can tell me what it is you were working on when I arrived," M says as they're waiting for his car. 

Q considers this. "I suppose I _could_ tell you," he says, "but I doubt you want to know." 

"Fair enough." M's black town car pulls up outside. He jerks his head towards it. "Come along, Q."

Q has literally never had a more uncomfortable car ride in his life, and that includes the time he had been held up in a cab by some madman trying to get into HQ. M is utterly silent, and when Q chances a look over at him, M looks a little bit paler. 

"I don't suppose you can tell me what you were working on," Q says eventually. "Anything you need Q Branch for?"

"Not as of yet," M says tiredly. "But I appreciate the offer."

"Right." Q tugs at the end of his parka, smoothing it over his knees. "I live at –"

"We know," M's driver says, sounding amused, and Q resists the urge to bang his head against the window. 

"Join MI6, they said," he mutters. "It'll be fun, they said."

M makes a strange noise. Q looks over, startled, and sees M trying very hard to hide a smile. 

Q tries not to let that go to his head. 

He doesn't exactly succeed though, because the next night he has abandoned his project for Bond in favour of creating a better sling for M. Bill comes by to ask Q for something, and Q completely ignores him while he goes looking through the records for M's measurements. 

"Q," Bill says eventually, "you haven't been listening to a word I've said have you?"

"What?" Q asks, blinking at him.

"Oh, never mind, I'll ask R," Bill says, turning away. 

"That's not even her real codename!" Q calls after him. 

He finishes the sling a little after nine and goes looking for M. Eve raises her eyebrows when she sees the parcel under his arm and says, "I thought you were working on something for Bond."

"I'm getting to that." Q shifts, trying to avoid her eyes. "Is he in?"

"Yes, hold on just one minute." Eve gets up, heels clicking – she's wearing the specially reinforced ones he'd made for her, he's happy to see – and opens the door to M's office. 

Q plucks at the ribbon on the box and wonders if it is, perhaps, overkill. Then again, you only live once, Bond notwithstanding, and he's a fully grown adult. He can handle some rejection.

"He'll see you now," Eve says, stepping back out. "Good luck," she adds, smacking him on the ass as he walks past her. 

"Er," Q says, stumbling into M's office with much less dignity than he might have hoped. "Hello, sir."

M smiles at him. It's not much of a smile, really, but it's more than Q usually sees on his face. Q blames that entirely for the fact that forgets everything he wants to say and kind of just shoves the box at him. 

"I thought you might like a new sling," Q says as M stares at it in confusion. "I, um, I broke my arm when I was young and I remember the sling was uncomfortable."

M undoes the ribbon and opens up the box. "It doesn't explode or anything, does it?" 

"No, it's just the most comfortable, discreet sling I could design." Q hesitates, then admits, "There _is_ a GPS homing beacon in the hem, but it's not on."

M stands up and says, "Come help me put it on, then."

"Oh," Q says. "I –all right."

He inches around to the other side of the desk and wishes he had paid more attention when Eve had taught him to hide his emotions. His hands, normally steady as a rock, shake a little as he slides his fingers beneath the strap of M's sling. 

"I apologize if I jostle you, sir," Q says, trying not to stare at the spot on M's jaw just below his ear where he had missed a patch of stubble. "On the count of three –"

They get the sling off without too much difficulty, and Q leaves M cradling his arm as he takes out the new and, in his opinion, much improved sling. "It should keep you from aggravating your shoulder," Q says, carefully fitting across his shoulders. "And it'll hopefully give you enough support that you won't notice the weight of your arm."

M doesn't so much as twitch as Q moves around him, adjusting the different straps until it looks about right. "How does that feel?" Q asks, resisting the urge to tuck his hands into his pocket and hunch. 

"Much better, actually," M says. He shifts a little, frowning, and nods. "Yes. Much better. Thank you, Q."

"Of course, sir," Q says, backing away. He hesitates, then reaches out and grabs the box. "I'll just clear this away."

M just nods. Q decides that he may as well quit while he's ahead and flees M's office with what is left of his sanity. 

 

He spends the rest of the day fiddling with Bond's sunglasses and doing his best to avoid human contact. He doesn't mind people, really; he feels the same way about them as he does about, say, ducks. They're around, they occasionally make noise, and sometimes one will bite him – on the other hand, maybe he doesn't think of people as ducks. 

The truth is that Q isn't quite the antisocial nerd people like to think he is. Most people assume that just because he likes spending time around with gadgets and computers, he must be inherently terrible with human beings. He's perfectly fine being with people; but machines are comforting. 

When he was first brought in to MI6, they had intended to just have him work in the lab helping build whatever crazy plans the current Q thought up, but after he locked himself in to modify and, in his opinion, improve the bizarre ski jacket-parachute hybrid that Q had decided was necessary, M had decided he deserved a promotion. He had quite liked working for the previous Q, even if he was a bit old and stuck in his ways. 

Eve and Bill had come with him to the funeral. It had, like all funerals after the bombing, been closed casket. 

Q just – has never been very good at dealing with infatuation. He is usually able to find a quick comeback, a quip, a pithy quote – but when confronted with a person he genuinely fancies, he freezes. He hasn't felt this off-balance since he first met Eve. 

"Is that my present?" Bond suddenly asks, right by Q's ear. 

Q only barely manages not to jump. "You need a cowbell," he says, tweaking the earpiece. "And it will be your present so long as you don't cause me to ruin it."

"They're sunglasses," Bond says, sounding disappointed. 

"So jaded," Q says. "I'll have you know they are _very special_ sunglasses." He turns and narrows his eyes at Bond. "Since you're here, may as well try them on."

He takes the sunglasses off the (creepily lifelike) bust of Bond and hands them over. Bond takes them gingerly. 

"They aren't going to explode, are they?" Bond asks as he slips them onto his face. 

"No," Q says. "Wouldn't want to damage that pretty face. How would you get any work done without it?"

Bond snorts and turns his head, looking around. "What are they supposed to do?"

"There's a camera in the left lens," Q says. "Very hard to detect. There's a radio transmitter in the metal of the right lens. You can activate it if needed. And lastly –" He gestures for Bond to take them off. "This is the best part."

He unscrews the arms of the glasses and then carefully pulls off the padding from the ends. "These," he says, waving them at Bond, "are lockpicks."

Bond investigates them, expression unreadable. Eventually he says, "Nice job, Q," and screws the arms back on. 

"How do they fit?" Q asks as Bond puts the sunglasses on. "Good?"

"Yes." Bond smirks. "Where did you get that model of my head?"

"Ask Moneypenny," Q says, because Eve really deserves it after laughing at him over the whole M thing. 

"Hmm," Bond says.

 

Q actually goes home that night and sleeps a full eight hours, exhausted from working on the project for Bond. He knows he has a stack of new ideas to approve and some computer maintenance to take care of, but he wants to savour the flush of success from seeing an idea through to conclusion, at least for a night.

When he arrives the next morning, he's greeted by a huge mug of Earl Grey and a grim expression from Bill. 

"We have a situation," Bill says, and Q spends the next five hours in front of a computer with Bill and, occasionally, Eve. At some point, someone slides a manila envelope into Q's inbox and he frowns at it for all of thirty seconds before Eve pinches him and commands him to get back to work. 

Q almost forgets about it, too, except that he nearly knocks his mug of now-cold tea onto it when he's stretching. He sees the envelope, slightly hidden underneath wrappers from Eve's Hobnobs, and he slides it out as carefully as he can. 

There's a note on top from the lab. _Q – here are the photos you requested._

"Photos?" M says from behind him and Q flinches, dropping the envelope. 

"You and Bond," he mutters. "Yes, photos."

He picks the envelope up again and turns around. M is standing much closer than Q is expecting, his gaze sharp and intense. "Q," M says. 

"Sir," Q says automatically. 

"What are the photos from? We haven't had any ops with film." M holds out his hand. "Private project."

"Not exactly." Q gives him the envelope. "M – the previous M – left me a box of old items. One of them was a cigarette camera with the film still in it."

"So you had it developed?" M asks. 

"Sir, M – the previous M – she was very thorough." Q shoves his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. "I can't imagine she would have left it to me if she didn't want it to be found."

M eyes him thoughtfully. Then he says, "Let's look these over in my office, shall we?"

Q thinks this is a _terrible_ idea, but he says, "Yes, sir," and follows meekly after him. 

 

Q isn't exactly sure what it is about M that he likes so much. 

It isn't the power, and it isn't the competence. Q works around many powerful, competent people, all of whom are madly intelligent as well. M has just – a presence. A gravitas. 

He had come in to evaluate Q branch right after the bombing, right after Q had returned from rummaging around the ruins of his old lab for anything salvageable. Q had been covered in soot and dirt and had looked quite like a chimney sweep in Mary Poppins, but M hadn't seemed to notice. He had asked Q about his qualifications, about what he had managed to save, and had wholeheartedly supported Q's promotion. 

And since then, Q has just become more and more enamoured of him. 

Sometimes, he wishes he had been born with the ability to fall in love with people who are actually available, or at least people he doesn't work with. 

Q sits across from M and watches M slide the glossy lab photos from the envelope. M starts shifting through them. 

"My," Q says, eyebrows inching upwards. 

"Quite," M agrees. 

After the sixth photo, M turns, unlocks the cabinet behind him, and pulls out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He hands Q a glass without saying a word, and Q knocks as much of it back as he can stand. He coughs, wipes his mouth with the edge of his sleeve, and gestures for M to continue. 

When they've gone through all thirty-five photos, M sits back, glass still in his hand. "Well," he says. 

"Yes," Q says. "She must have spent years on this."

"Dead useful, though." M starts to sort through the photos. "Nearly all of these people are still in their positions, as well."

"We won't make friends with blackmail," Q says. 

"We don't need friends," M says flatly. "We need allies. They're not the same thing."

"I hate working with the Americans," Q mutters. 

"Yes, we all do," M says. "Unfortunately, we need their resources."

"I doubt they'll be happy about this," Q says. 

"Probably not." M neatens the stack of photos and hands them over. "Digitize these, please, and make sure no one else sees them. Shred the originals and the negatives. Who developed them?"

"Er, Sara in the lab, I think?" Q tucks the photos back into the envelope. "What are you going to do?"

"Promote her," M says. "And upgrade her security clearance."

"Good," Q says. "She's very good at her job; I'd hate to lose her."

"I'll keep that in mind," M says dryly. Q gets to his feet, already thinking about what security he's going to have to put around the photos, and M adds, "Good job, Q."

Q jerks his eyes up. M is smiling, very faintly, approving and warm. He feels himself flush; he curses his pale complexion. "Thank you, sir."

He feels M's eyes on his back the whole way out of the office. 

 

Q does as he's told and digitizes the photos before tucking them away in several different places with as much security as he can layer around it without making anyone suspicious. He burns the originals and the negatives in their kiln and symbolically scatters the ashes from the roof. It feels very cathartic, almost like he's letting the old M go, her last act scattered to the wind from the roof of the place she spent most of her time. 

After, he goes down to collect Eve and Bill and gets utterly pissed with them. 

"Darling," Eve says when he's on his fifth absurd cocktail of the evening, "are you all right?"

Q lifts his face from the bar and says, "I miss her, Eve."

Eve sighs and pets his hair. "I know."

On Eve's other side, Bill rests his chin in his hands. "I was convinced that old woman would survive us all, honestly."

"To M," Q says, managing to lift his glass without spilling. They clink glasses and Q downs the rest of his drink in one gulp. 

He doesn't manage to get into the office until a little after ten the next morning, and he is greeted by Sara, who is apparently now being primed to be his co-head of Q branch, who says, "Himself has been looking for you."

"Bollocks," sighs Q, rubbing at his hair. "How do I look?"

"Like you're still pissed, honestly," Sara says. She straightens his jumper. "Just try not to sick up on him."

"Terrific advice." Q steals a piece of gum from a desk as he passes and heads up to M's office. 

He feels slightly better when he sees Eve, who looks just as rough as he feels, and she waves him in vaguely. He waggles his fingers at her, then steps inside M's office. 

"Hello, Q," M says, smiling a little. "I take it you and Miss Moneypenny had a nice night out?"

"Bill Tanner, too," Q says, because he'll be damned if he and Eve take all the blame. 

"Of course." M beckons Q further into the room. "I wanted to discuss a new project with you."

"Oh – all right," Q says, frowning; usually he is sent his assignment remotely. "For what?"

"For Bond's next assignment," M says, and he pulls out a file. 

Q manages to get through the whole briefing without asking what he really wants to ask, which is why M isn't briefing everyone at the once the way it's always done. He accepts the folder from M when they're finished and says, "I'll get to work, sir."

"Thank you, Q," M says. 

"But, sir," Q says slowly, "why, exactly am I here? Briefings aren't done one on one, not for non-agents."

M's expression doesn't change, which Q personally thinks is much more telling than if M had startled. "I thought it was best to talk to you privately so you can begin planning."

"Of course, sir," Q says. He gets up to leave, then turns back. "Sir," he says. "If it's not too forward – there are easier ways to see me."

"Are there?" M asks. 

"I like Earl Grey," Q says, throwing caution to the winds. "And there's a nice little cafe around the corner that I go to after work. I'll probably be there around tea time today."

M smiles. "Understood, Q."


End file.
